


Run For Your Life

by helo572



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: “I said,” he says, “get on the ground.”Moira knows that her obedience to that command will expire, it's simply a question of when.





	Run For Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> i blame the moicy discord. and [the fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-4zx3DrMFA).

The holdup comes without warning, a flurry of men in their black masks, a gun and two knives between them. Moira’s three-quarters of the way into the DNA sequence, eyes narrowed at the screen as it slowly goes through the results. Angela’s across the way, picking apart a salvaged omnic from the Egyptian battlefield.

 

When they storm in, shouts about getting down on the ground and handing over their valuables, the first thing that flicks to the forefront of her mind is sharp annoyance at being interrupted, not fear -- that blossoms second when one of the men points his handgun square at her forehead.

 

“I said,” he says, “get on the ground.”

 

“Do as he says,” she hears Angela say, and her body registers the order with slow compliance, her eyes never leaving the man’s own wide-blown gaze. “We are doctors. Researchers with Overwatch. We mean no trouble.”

 

The gun has left Moira’s face, but the memory of it there has not. It’s hanging limply from the man’s grasp now, and he’s drumming a finger against the grip -- _one two three four, one two three four, one two three four_. Another is still curled around the trigger.

 

The fear turns primal, the churn of her chest warning of her fight-or-flight response kicking in. “And we have no valuables here. This is a science lab, not a jewelry store,” Moira says, eyes still tracing the corners of the handgun, the way it sits in the robber’s hand.

 

He stands in the doorway to the lab, a glass door pull ajar by their abrupt entrance, completely filled by the large span of his shoulders. And now he looks to Moira again, head cocked, gun thankfully not.

 

“You think I’m pulling this gig for fun, _doctor_?” He gestures to the lab, where the remaining two men are rifling through their stores, the equipment, and Moira’s DNA sequencing program. The annoyance takes hold again, cold in comparison to the fight oozing out of her chest. “I need the cash. This shit sells well on the black market, especially if it’s got Overwatch data in the banks.”

 

 _Makes it easier to find again_ , she wants to say. _Easier to track you down and squeeze your pathetic head between my fingers--_

 

Instead, Angela is speaking, “We can help you.” She is across the room, also on her knees, but her hands are raised in surrender. There is a man to her left ripping the cables out of her computer, stuffing his plunder into the duffel at his feet. The sight makes Moira’s blood boil. “Put away your weapons, let us speak with the aide council, and we will see you are compensated for you losses due to the Crisis.” With a glance at Moira, she adds, “Personally.”

 

Their dooman just laughs. He stalks closer to Angela, and Moira’s on auto-pilot when she throws out a hand to stop him. She catches him in the leg, the shin, and pulls away as quickly as she had moved. Angela watches the exchange with wide eyes.

 

“You two,” he says, looking between them, “are quite the characters. You, the negotiator. And her, the fighter.” But he still continues towards Angela, his steps larger, more pronounced, more intention hidden behind them. Moira bristles but holds her ground, because he’s teasing his finger against the trigger. “I’m sure you have all the fun together. If you know what I mean.”

 

Here, one of the doorman’s goons does laugh. It’s a harsh sound, gruff and mocking, twisting daggers of rage into Moira’s chest. Her breath comes hot against her throat, the fight threatening to break free from her rib cage, to wrap her fingers around this bastard’s throat.

 

“Whatever you are insinuating, let it pass,” Angela says, her voice measured. “We’ve done as you said. I’ve offered you aid in exchange for your surrender. We can give you no more.”

 

“ _Surrender_ ? Sorry, doc, I must have wandered into the wrong lab. _Unguarded_ lab, filled with priceless equipment, and now you mention it. Not one, but two probably _very_ valued Overwatch researchers. _Doctors._ Maybe I _can_ get more out of you yet.”

 

 _Hostages_ , Moira’s mind supplies. Angela’s initial pitch to her had been fine; three weeks in the remnants of Cairo as it rebuilds, to study the victims of the Crisis and those who had terrorised their homes. Delve deeper into their understanding of the omnics that rebelled. Certainly, being held up by the people they’d come here to help had not been on the agenda.

 

“Overwatch tolerates no such threats,” Moira says, still glaring. “And neither will I.” The fight banging against her chest eases a little as she rises to feet, in time with the doorman’s gun. If he were to shoot, she isn’t sure if it would be blood gushing from the wound.

 

“ _Moira_ ,” Angela hisses, from behind the doorman, her eyes wide. “Moira, do as he says. Get back down.”

 

She is regarded simply with a smirk, right before he turns and hits Angela over the face with the back of his hand. The noise she makes is awful, a cry, both pained and indignant.

 

“You heard the woman,” he says. “Get back down, or that won’t be all she gets. And what a shame it’ll be, I hate to ruin a pretty face.”

 

Angela will tell her later that time slowed down, but everything still happened at once: Moira lunges forward with murder in her eyes, one of the goons yells for her to stop, the other grabs Angela by the collar, and the doorman fires his gun in what Angela assumes was intended to be a warning shot.

 

The gun is pointed at the wall, an angle of nearly 85 degrees, and the noise stops all the commotion as quickly as it occured. The first thing Moira _does_ remember, is the sound of her own ragged breathing as adrenalin -- the fight -- releases her. It sounds strained, as if she were listening to it with her ears blocked, but she pays it no mind, and stares down the doorman -- the gunman.

 

He is looking at her, too, a mix of horrified, surprised, and lost. The goons reflect similar expressions, except one grabs his duffel, elbows his partner and says something -- his lips move, but there is no sound, only the garbled sound of Moira’s breathing, heavy in her own ears.

 

The gunman is still staring, but when one of his goons grabs his arms, he takes one last look at Moira and bolts, back out of the glass door and into the streets of Cairo. Angela moves as quickly as he does, concern ripe in her eyes, and her fingers hot on Moira’s skin. She takes her by the shoulder, and again by the hip.

 

“Moira, Moira,” she’s saying, and Moira blinks hard, to bring it all into focus. “ _Moira_. Are you okay?”

 

Weakly, she finds her voice, “Just grand.”

 

The men are gone, most of their lab is still intact, and Angela is safe. There is still a mark on her cheek, red and angry, and Moira reaches out to touch it with her fingers. They tremble as her hand meets Angela’s face, but Angela does not flinch away, just holds tighter -- almost painfully so.

 

“Moira,” she says, again, and it’s like she’s slipping underwater. Her voice drags down, pulling them both under the surface. “It’s okay, it’s--”

 

Angela’s hand moves from Moira’s hip to her hand, which hangs limply at her side. She pulls it close, but won’t let Moira lace their fingers together. Instead, she presses it to into Moira’s side, hard, and the biting pain hits Moira like a tidal wave.

 

She disappears under the surface of the water, Angela’s voice with it, and the concern weighed so heavily in her eyes. _I’m fine, love. We’re fine. They’re gone_. When she resurfaces, she is staring up at the lab’s roof, Angela hovering in the corner of her vision.

 

“-- yes, three. All large build.” A pause, and Moira blinks hard, tries to remember how she got here, tries to remember what that certain pinch of Angela’s forehead means. “About four minutes ago, and-- wait.” She leans closer, blonde hair hanging over her shoulder, and smiles that smile she reserves for patients. “Moira? You’re alright, it’s alright. I’ve called for help.”

 

 _Help_? Moira’s brow furrows, her body aches, there’s something digging its claws into her side. “But they’re--”

 

Angela silences her quickly with a look.

 

“Wha--” she tries instead, but it’s cut short when a wave of pain hits her, hot and nauseating. Angela presses a firm hand onto her shoulder, holding her still, and another to her side -- which works agony up her side in waves Moira hasn’t felt before. “What’s--”

 

“Stop moving,” Angela rebukes, sharply, and it’s that same pain and indignity from before when the gunman hit her, but mixed in with upset, hurt. “Moira, _stop_. You’ve been shot. You need to lie still. I’m doing all I can, but--” Her voice cuts off abruptly, so Moira searches for her face, looking for answers, for the woman she vowed to protect and is suddenly failing so terribly.

 

Except it all catches up with her: the anguish tearing across Angela’s face, the quiver of her lips, her words before -- _you’ve been shot_ . _Shot_. With a gun. The gunman’s gun. The terrified look in his eyes, the sound of their retreating footsteps, Angela’s raw concern, the harsh light of the lab covering them both sprawled on the floor.

 

Agony claws at her side and Angela sniffs, swallowing thickly. “I thought-- I thought it hit something vital. Your back, an artery, _anything_ , when it bounced off the glass. _Scheisse_ , I thought I would lose you.”

 

“I--”

 

Angela shushes her with a gentle kiss, a thumb raking across her cheek. “I know, you are right here. I am, too. I have you. It’s alright, love, it’s alright. I have you.”

 

She does, including the moment when Moira’s eyes flutter open in a drug-induced haze. Angela is tussled but awake at her bedside, eyes rimming with concern but relief, her hand gentle on Moira’s cannula-covered one.

 

“Hi,” she breathes, thumb raking across the inside of her hand. The feeling tickles, but it’s a blessing compared to the rest of her, which is nothing but a dull ache despite the cloudiness of her head. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Doped,” Moira murmurs in return, earning her a soft laugh. She tries to smile, too, to reassure her. The pieces she remembers are anything but comforting -- Angela fretting as Moira slips in and out of consciousness, the noises of pain on the journey to the hospital, the words _surgery_ and _delicate_ and _shock_ , and the ever-constant presence of pain tingling at her side. “But okay. I’m okay, my love.”

 

Gently, Angela raises their joined hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of Moira’s knuckles. It’s a graze of a touch, but warm all the same, setting about something deep in Moira’s chest. She longs to reach out, to tuck the loose strands of hair behind Angela’s ear, to cradle her face in her hands.

 

Angela hasn’t answered, so Moira asks gently to their entwined hands, “Are you?”

 

The question seems to startle her, a look in her eyes that only the gunman had drawn, when he’d pointed the gun at Moira again. Fear, the helpless kind, with a twinge of sadness and regret. “Of course I am. You are safe. Those men will be hunted down. My worries are sated with the first, but the second do help to ease my concerns for you.”

 

There is a conversation to be had later, when Moira can grasp onto those words and dissect them as she wants to. For now, it is enough to bask in Angela’s gaze, enjoy the warmth of her touch, and relax back into the pillows.

 

“Rest, love,” Angela whispers against Moira’s fingers, pressing another kiss for good measure. “I will be here when you wake up.”

 

She is true to that promise, too, and then some.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3


End file.
